


Not That Kind of Song

by Serenade



Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett
Genre: F/F, Kissing, Love Confessions, Post-Canon, trapped together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-17
Updated: 2017-12-17
Packaged: 2019-02-16 02:22:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13044498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Serenade/pseuds/Serenade
Summary: The problem with songs, Polly thought, is that they always left out the most important bits.





	Not That Kind of Song

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Rimedio](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rimedio/gifts).



The problem with songs, Polly thought, is that they always left out the most important bits.

There was always a war, so the songs she grew up with were war songs. They talked about death and glory, and managed to make them both sound equally marvellous. They never talked about mud and guts, or being sick in the mud when you saw those guts where they shouldn't be.

The love songs weren't much better. They talked about dashing soldiers and blushing milkmaids, or handsome princes and beautiful ladies, who seemed to fall in love in one verse and end up happily ever after in the next. The songs were always so coy about what happened in between. Not that Polly needed the physical details. It was impossible to be ignorant of the facts of life when you had chickens in the coop, busily making more chickens. It was more the question of how you crossed that chasm between liking someone and being together.

The chickens were no help there. They didn't have to ask each other if the other chicken really liked them.

Polly sighed, and fed another stick into the fire. Next to it, wet socks and boots and jackets lay drying. Maladicta leaned close to the fire, brewing a pot of coffee. She still had her necklace of roast beans, which staved off emergency cravings, but she claimed it was no substitute for a hot cup of black magic. She stirred the pot with an expression of pleasurable concentration. A few wisps of dark hair escaped her usually immaculate widow's peak. Even vampires were not quite waterproof.

Maladicta inhaled the scent of the brew, her eyes falling shut. She took a slow sip, and moaned in a way that made Polly's ears burn.

With great determination, Polly stared out at the rain, gusting through the sky in great silver sheets. It would take at least a day for the flooded river to subside. Until then they were stuck here, under this sheltering overhang of rock, that only a very optimistic person would call a cave. All they had for distraction was a travelling backgammon set, which Polly suspected was missing some of the pieces.

If it were a boy in her hometown, she knew what she was supposed to do. They would go walking together. He would give her flowers. She would give him her handkerchief. He would ask her father for his blessing. It was a ritual as old as, well, song.

But there were no songs about vampires. Except for wicked noblemen, who abducted fair maidens from their beds, and invariably got beheaded by some brave hero.

There were no songs about _courting_ a vampire.

"Poll," Maladicta called, oddly hesitant. "Would you like some coffee?"

"I'm fine, thanks," Polly said, automatically. She knew Maladicta had a limited supply. She preferred tea anyway.

"Oh."

They fell into silence again, with only the steady thrumming of the rain. At least for a while.

"What are you humming?" Polly asked.

"Mm?" Maladicta looked up from the fire, a flash of guilt on her face. She smoothed her features into a languid smile. "It's from a vampire opera. Have you heard of _Vlad in Darkness_?"

Polly shook her head. She knew vampires had a strange fondness for wearing opera capes. She had never made the connection that maybe they really liked going to the opera. "What's it about?"

"Blood, of course. They're all epic, tragic, and bloody." Maladicta stared into her coffee. "This one is about a vampire lord who falls in love with a human woman."

Sensing a glimmer of light, Polly said hopefully, "He doesn't get beheaded, does he?"

"No. He turns her into a vampire, giving her immortality. There's a great deal of mutual bloodsucking. There's an aria that goes on and on about it. It's considered _romantic_." The word was heavy with irony and exasperation.

Romantic bloodsucking. Polly thought she began to understand. "And what if you're a Black Ribboner?"

"Indeed," Maladicta said. "There aren't any operas about _those_. Who would be interested in watching something so boring?"

She had offered Polly a cup of coffee. Maybe she didn't have any songs for courtship rituals either.

"Well," Polly said, "I think someone should write one."

"Do you now?" Maladicta said softly. Her eyes were very bright in the firelight. Like little sparks were dancing in their depths. "Do you happen to have any ideas?"

This could happen, Polly thought, heart beating wildly. It seemed impossible that it could finally be real. What if it was all a misunderstanding? There was something called cabin fever. Polly should check, in case Maladicta was just going stir crazy and wanted to write an opera together. She swallowed. "I have pencil and paper somewhere. Or--do you want to play backgammon?"

Maladicta tilted her head, favouring Polly with a gleaming smile. "I sincerely hope that is a euphemism."

Polly made the decision that she knew well enough to disregard the songs. Surely she had the courage to find out for herself. She leaned forward and kissed Maladicta.

Who kissed her back.

She had wondered before. What did vampires taste like? What did vampires kiss like? What did _Maladicta_ kiss like?

Now she knew. Soft. Sweet. With a hint of bitterness. And a hint of fang. Just enough to intrigue and excite. Polly opened her mouth and closed her eyes, feeling strong arms as cool as marble wrap around her, and a satisfied purring rumble against her chest.

When they drew back, they were both breathless. Maladicta looked like she was trying to come up with a witty rejoinder, but failing. Polly wondered if she had the same ridiculous smile on her own face.

"You taste like coffee," she said.

"You taste--even better than coffee."

"Oh, really? Does that mean--"

Maladicta answered her question with another kiss.

They practised some more, while the music of the rain filled the air around them. Eventually, the sun came out, and made little rainbows over the misty river.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Not That Kind of Song [podfic]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13954998) by [semperfiona](https://archiveofourown.org/users/semperfiona/pseuds/semperfiona)




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